


To See the Stars and Feel Again

by TheaTerathiel



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/F, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Trauma, Violence, this one's pretty dark actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheaTerathiel/pseuds/TheaTerathiel
Summary: As the Legion returned to Azeroth, Suramar made a dark bargain and exiled those that resisted. They were meant to die in the wilds, but instead they resisted. Survival was hopeless, let alone victory, and still they fight on. This is the story of two exiles and their grief, soldiers in a war they cannot win.A canon-compliant story set during the Suramar rebellion. It focuses more on the personal aspects and how the war affects two very, very damaged individuals. I'm not really sure if this one has a happy ending.
Relationships: Valtrois/Original Character
Kudos: 4





	1. Unfelt

Blood ran in a glistening stream down the elegant stone of the stairwell. Empty eyes stared glassily at something those that lived could not yet see. Red rivulets cascaded off of dusky violet flesh to join the cascade.

It was almost a beautiful sight in its serenity, yet the taste it left in Isolde's mouth was the acrid bitterness of betrayal and of loss. Her breath came in ragged, exhausted gasps, yet even the adrenaline that raced through her veins failed to rouse a thrill. Just a grey hollowness accompanied by a desperate wish that things could be better, could be different.

Her shaking hands reached out to clasp around the shaft of the mana-blade, clumsily wrenching it free of the corpse. Isolde fell backwards as it left its sheathe, bracing herself against the wall of the ruins. This hadn't been the first of Elisande's loyalists that she'd had to kill. She doubted that it would be the last.

Slowly, she caught her breath and allowed the tension in her shrivelled muscles to bleed away like so much faith. The hunger gnawed deep inside, and it was difficult to drag her eyes away from the shimmering edge of the mana-blade. It would sate that hunger for a moment, but then she'd be defenceless against whatever came at her.

It came upon Isolde that, well, there was nothing else to look forward to. Thoughts didn't strike her anymore, simply emerged from other ideas in a logical string that she could easily dissect, hoping that some aspect of what ran through her mind would stir something from the sullen emptiness.

Better to die than wither. As she weakly lifted up the mana-blade, her reflection caught in the metal of the blade. Skin greying, stretched tight across her skull. So very, very frail and gaunt. Even her corpselike pallor failed to raise anything within her. It's what she'd expected to see - just another disappointment.

She breathed in, but stopped before she began the process of consumption. A moment's hesitation. Why had she tried so hard to stay alive these past weeks? It wasn't out of enjoying life. Even waking up was almost a disappointment. It certainly wasn't hope. She'd die another nightfallen freak, a gaunt mockery of elven grace. An ignominious death for one who would be unmourned.

With something that bordered on half-hearted amusement, Isolde decided she'd kept herself alive out of habit. Did she want to die? Not particularly. It would be nice to lie down to sleep one night and not have to wake up again, but the prospect of dying didn't excite her in the slightest.

Despite that, she was so, so tired. The mana-blade clattered to the ground as Isolde slumped down onto the floor of the ruins, her head hanging and her arms resting on her knees. It was so unfair, really. How she wished it could all be better, how she could go back to the days before demons walked the streets of Suramar and a tyrannical Grand Magistrix cast dissenters out to wither in the wilds.

Pointless. It was all so pointless now. Still, she wasn't bothering anyone. That was nice. Having nobody to worry about you also meant that you wouldn't have to deal with driving them away once they saw your problems. In its own way, it was liberating to be truly alone.

_But it did hurt._

Wordlessly, Isolde reached out and took up the mana-blade. She pushed herself to her feet, the first steps unsteady before she caught herself and forced weakened muscles to start walking. She left the ruins behind as her footsteps fell on grass and leaves. Walking aimlessly onwards through the woods of Suramar, waiting to die.

***

Of course Shal'Aran leaked. Valtrois grit her teeth as she wiped the droplets from her face, trying not to notice the way her skin clung to the bones of her hand. A nightborne arcanist, reduced to _this_. At least her current dwelling was in as poor a condition as she was; she'd have been embarrassed to show herself somewhere nicer.

The heavy footfalls of the outlander made her grit her teeth anew. Her dependency on the mana crystals this troll brought her was a constant vexation. To have her survival in the hands of a primitive!

She never admitted it, not even to Thalyssra, but that anger sometimes incandesced into hate. Hatred of how much more powerful than her this outlander was, and the shame that came with that admission. Anger became hate became shame, which in turn fed her anger anew. It was a vicious cycle unbecoming of her.

The outlander loped past her in his strange, trolling gait. He nodded to her as he did so, and she forced herself to reciprocate it. Her teeth grit together behind lips sealed tightly into a line.

She forced herself to speak, to air the idea she'd been concocting. "Outlander. Do you remember where we met?"

The troll turned around, evidently surprised. "Of course, mon. It be that ley station out in de wilds. Why ya be asking me this?"

The query hovered in the air, and it threatened to spark a fury even more red. He thought her mind giving way like her body did? She was not that far gone. She would _never_ be that far gone.

It was just concern. The withered did lose their minds. Valtrois bit down the anger. _I am better than this. I am better than this._ She would _not_ lose control.

"Simply ensuring that you recall the design of the station, its construction. The arcane arts aren't your specialty, after all."

"Me remember. Is something wrong with de place?"

She waved a finger. "No, no. I've simply been contemplating the array of the station and the leyline energy it redirects towards this complex. Simply put, it's not enough. Fortunately, I know of another ley station that we can… requisition to our cause."

The outlander nodded, understanding. "And ya want me to look for it."

She scoffed. "Of course not. We are going to look for it. Together."

"Are ya sure? Ya don't be… "

"I am weakened, not invalid," Valtrois snarled. "Don't bother trying to talk me out of this. Besides, it's not like you'd be able to do anything in the ley station when we find it, unless you've suddenly developed an expertise in the arcane… which I doubt."

He shrugged. Her logic was flawless, of course. Obviously, her real motivation had very little to do with the ley station and everything to do with getting out. She was tired of being cooped up, utterly reliant on the mercy of whatever being brought her the mana she desperately needed. It was past time she took matters into her own hands.

And if she got to obliterate some of Elisande's loyalists in the process, well, all the better.


	2. Unmet

What drove her now was spite. Her steps were wracked with pain, her exhausted body berating her with each footfall onto the forest floor. She refused to give the world the privilege of seeing her break.

Soon enough, though, it wouldn't be her choice. Her supply of mana crystals was depleted, and if Isolde was forced to draw from the only weapon she had…

Keep looking. Find something. One of the mana crystals that dotted the area, preferably, or shelter if that was impossible. Where even was she? She could hear the rushing of water, so perhaps somewhere in the northern part of the wilds?

Unfortunately, that was the extent of Isolde's knowledge. Ten thousand years under the sunless dome meant that there were only the geographical reports of the last few weeks for her to work on - and only the most basic of those had found themselves to the common citizenry. She was basically running off of guesswork.

As she pushed through a tangle of scrub, a branch swung back and smacked her firmly in the chest. The blow drove the wind from her, and she fell backwards.

Growling in frustration, she pushed herself up and past the obstacle with a swing of the mana blade. Isolde emerged onto a… dirt pathway? Here? She felt a faint flicker of surprise before the information processed and her emotional reaction faded.

Oh well. Her analytical mind took over. Clearly this route had been travelled, and relatively recently at that. She looked up the trail, first to one side, and then the other. Both ways led into the unknown, so Isolde supposed it was simply a matter of preference. South likely led closer to Suramar, and north into… where? No such reports of the lands past the wilds had reached her.

The devil she knew, or the one she didn't.

_Choose where you want to starve,_ she thought grimly.

A river ran parallel to the road, flowing down the slight incline of the hill in the southern direction. This was what decided it - north. If she found the mouth of the river, then… well, it would be a pleasant place to die, wouldn't it? Isolde walked on. It was much easier to travel this way - not as effortless as one of Suramar's paved roads, but considerably better than the uneven forest.

Isolde felt the back of her neck crawl, and leapt to the side as a bolt of power careened through the air where her head had just been. She landed poorly, tripping and skidding on the ground with enough force to scrape at her arms and side. Recovering, she rolled to dodge another bolt - and, leaping to her feet, she ran.

_Elisande!_

Another loyalist hunting for exiles, undoubtedly. Isolde weaved from side to side as she ran, keeping her movements erratic and hard to track. Dirt and stone sprayed into the air where stray bolts struck the ground. The path began to climb, working its way up a hill, and she dragged herself up with all the remaining strength in her failing limbs.

Wide open. She was wide open, and the nearest patch of forest was at least thirty metres ahead of her. Isolde staggered up under a rain of arcane fire that astoundingly hadn't hit her yet. It occurred to her, as a thought rolled across her conscious in a way that almost seemed to slow time, that perhaps the misses were intentional and the loyalist hunter was seeing where their quarry would run to.

They were in for a disappointment. Isolde had nothing, only her life that was rapidly fading.

She hurled herself into the forest. Again, her thoughts came so fast and so clear that time seemed slow in comparison. Don't keep running. Hide and try to sneak away, do something unexpected. She could fight, but it was clear she was outmatched in her current state. So she pushed her way into the brush, burying herself as best she could in a thick bush.

Her mind ran overtime, taking in the shaking that wracked her body, the gnawing pain in her stomach, the blurring of her vision. It felt as though she was observing herself from far away, noting how her breaths came in great heaves that still couldn't bring air to her lungs. Her limbs began to lock up, unable to move but for those damnable shivers.

In third person, Isolde watched herself die.

She realised it slowly, her exhausted body simply too damaged and malnourished to recover from the exertion of her flight. It was hard to tell how long the process was taking, as things slowly began to blur into a grey haze.

Air. She needed air. Her chest moved, but nothing reached her lungs. She crashed back into her own body, felt herself suffocating, _felt herself suffocating_ , and the panic hit her like a mace. So much indifference and emptiness, but now there was something there, even if it was just panic, and _she didn't want to die_. Isolde tried to clutch at her own chest, scrabble with her fingers to rip it open and _force_ the air into her, but her muscles didn't respond, and she slowly tipped over and fell to her side on the ground. Head swimming, she fixated on one gaunt, withered hand that fell in the centre of her vision, the veins visible beneath shrunken skin that clung to bone.

A sob left her, more of a cough than anything else. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She couldn’t--

From far away, a voice seemed to speak out.

***

"Careless. Careless, and stupid," Valtrois sneered as she let the loyalist's body fall into the dirt, its throat slit. She knelt down to wipe her knife on the corpse's garments before rising back up and putting the blade back in its sheath.

There was, of course, the question as to what had occupied the loyalist's attention so much that Valtrois had been able to get so close. By the time retaliation had come, it was too late.

"We should explore, mon," the outlander suggested. Valtrois hummed in agreement.

"Of course. I'd had that thought myself." Without another word, she strode off, heading up the hill in the same approximate direction the loyalist had been heading.

"Ya tink it be anodda elf?"

"An exile? Mmm. Seems likely enough. The question, of course, is where our potential friend is hiding."

This wasn't the ley station, but it was conveniently on the way. Troll and nightborne carefully pushed their way into a cluster of the forest, both reasoning that a fleeing exile would've tried hiding.

Valtrois scanned around, her eyes narrowing as she peered at the expanse of green. Everything looked the same, really. Just trees and bushes and scrub. Perhaps there wasn't--

She almost jumped back startled as the bush she was looking directly at shook, and a figure fell onto the ground. The surprise lasted only a moment - Valtrois began to move forward, but as her brain registered what she was looking at she froze completely.

Too much of that shuddering, dying nightfallen was familiar to her. She looked so similar to the arcanist, the same shock of white hair and high cheekbones now standing out far too much on a gaunt, shrunken face. Something akin to dizziness seized Valtrois, her eyes shooting wide open as she stared in shock at someone who might have been _her_.

_I can't die like this._ The thought echoed around in her head like a mantra. She barely noticed the outlander push past her, and certainly didn't register his words. He was looking at her incredulously, oblivious to her state, and she could only blankly return the gaze.

Trollish fingers reached into the pouch on her waist, drawing out a small handful of mana crystals - _those are mine!_ \- and he knelt down beside the dying elf. Valtrois now gazed enviously at the mana crystals, feeling her own hunger in the pit of her stomach. She almost moved to grab them before stopping herself.

Then again - maybe she should take them. This would just be a stay of execution for the other exile. Valtrois could turn them into something. Almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, her ears burned and she had to look away, movement returning to her as the convulsions slowed and the elf was pulled back from the precipice of starvation.

When she looked again, Valtrois had no idea why she'd been so startled. The other elf was superficially similar to her at best. The jaw structure was completely different, the ears pointed at a different angle, the nose smaller. A small scar sat just below the eye, an almost white colour set against the otherwise dusky skin.

Her eyes had closed, but her breathing was regular and that awful shivering had stopped. The outlander looked back at the arcanist.

"I know ya be wantin' ta get ta de ley-station, but this one ain't gonna be good for travelling. We gotta get her back to de hideout."

Valtrois' eyes snapped up to meet his. "After we came all this way? We can't just -- leave! Shal'Aran needs this power. Besides, she can rest there while I work."

The troll pointed back at the direction they'd come from. "We may not be able to rest, mon. Dat be one loyalist. Dey never be huntin' alone."

She prepared an angry retort, before realising there wasn't one and the outlander was completely right. _Again._

"Damn it all to the Twisting Nether," she muttered. "What a waste of time."

The troll indicated the unconscious elf he was hefting up over a shoulder. "Not entirely, mon."

It was another mouth to feed in a situation where they were struggling already, but Valtrois didn't comment that. It wouldn't be fair to turn away a survivor from the closest place to safety.

The sound of voices and the ringing of metal played in the distance, coming closer.

She looked at the outlander, and he at her, and they came to the same conclusion.

_Move!_

They raced through the forest, but its cover gave way all too soon and they were back out in the open. Ordinarily the outlander would've easily outpaced Valtrois, weakened as she was, but he was burdened by a half-dead bag of skin and bones. Their flight didn't have a plan - they certainly couldn't get themselves trapped at the ley-station. The only option was to put as much space between them and the loyalist hunters as possible, and hopefully avoid detection.

A shout raised above the general clamour, and that hope was dashed in a flurry of arcane bolts that fell luckily short by several dozen metres.

"They'll gain on us!" she called to the outlander. "I have an idea, but I'll need some cover!"

"It's yours!" the troll yelled back. His free hand moved in the air, and the ground behind them erupted into a spray of heated rock and steam.

Valtrois swung her pack around to the front as she ran, rifling through it with none of her methodical precision. Oculeth had given her a last resort, and if this wasn't the time to use it - well, there wouldn't be a time.

A bolt shot through the covering cloud, glancing against her left leg. She cried out and fell as the wound sizzled, the contents of her pack scattering across the ground.

There! She saw the translocation beacon and lunged forward to grab it. No time to calibrate it properly - she winced as she input the activation command, hoping it wouldn't send her to three different places.

The outlander had stopped as she fell, dropping the comatose elf and casting with both hands now. As skilled as he was, Valtrois knew he'd be overwhelmed before long, and then they'd all be dead.

"Grab on to me!" she called. He looked down at her before dropping, one hand throwing the elf at her and the other grabbing onto her shoulder just in time. The beacon flared an arcane blue - and the trio were gone.


End file.
